


221C

by HenryMercury



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Black Humor, Dark, Gen, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'll take it." The words leave your mouth suddenly. The place is a dump – in fact, a dump would probably be more inviting. You remind yourself that the average dump, however, is not located beneath the residence of Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	221C

**Author's Note:**

> Written almost a year ago, inspired by a certain breed of rather twisty spoof fanfiction.

A.

You sit alone up the back of a small coffee shop, book open before you. Your latte glass is long empty and you've watched the people scurrying in and out since early this morning. At first you thought you just needed some fresh air, but as the hours ticked by you finally admitted to yourself that you don't really have anywhere else to go.

You can't keep living with Christopher; it's too awkward being around the apartment now. You're not shattered by the breakup, but his words do echo around in your head occasionally – you're  _too obsessive_  for him. You can't put a relationship first when you've got a book open, and you rarely put one down. You've always told yourself you'll find someone who understands what it's like to live in a constant search for ways to exceed reality, shake off the everyday and chase after danger and excitement, to stay up late contemplating the next clue in a mystery, to be so absorbed that meals fall by the wayside.

"Hi there," someone says, taking the seat across from you at your table. Glancing up, you see a man you've not laid eyes on for many months. He's chubbier than you remember him being.

"Mike Stamford," you say, smiling politely. "It's been too long."

"Much too long," he agrees, pulling his chair in with a loud scuff. "How's Chris?"

"Ah," you look back down at your book, wishing the conversation had never started. "That… that's an interesting question."

"Not working out so well, eh?" Mike grimaces apologetically.  
You shake your head in confirmation. "Looking to move out, actually," you say. Hearing the words aloud for the first time is a strange relief. "Not sure where to stay, though. Can't afford London on a part-time sales assistant's wages. You don't happen to know anybody who's looking for a flat-share, or something?" You figure it's worth a try.

"Not a flat-share, sorry," Mike replies. "Knew a couple of blokes who were looking for that sort of thing, but already introduced 'em to each other. Not sure their place is big enough for the two of them, let alone another-" Mike pauses for a moment, and you can see he's got an idea.

"What is it?" You ask, curious. "Anywhere you can think of, Mike, so long as Chris' face won't be at the breakfast table." The two of you chuckle, and Mike relents.

"It's really not the type of place I think you'll be wanting. If I remember rightly, there's a place next door to the two lads I was mentioning. It's not more than a room, not nearly as nice as Sherlock and John's place, and it's got a ghastly mould problem, you might have to break out a few tins of paint-" You hold up a hand, and Mike stops, looking confused.  
You barely processed anything after  _Sherlock and John_. You only know of one man named Sherlock, and that Sherlock is Sherlock Holmes. The greatest detective who ever lived – and the greatest  _person_ , too, you decide without a second thought. You've read the blog, seen the photos of those distinctive cheekbones and the hat he never looks quite comfortable wearing. Did Mike really say there's a place vacant  _next door?  
_

"Anything's fine for now, really, Mike," you say as levelly as you can. "Reckon you could give me an address, or a contact? I'd appreciate it." Never mind the fact you already know the address.

"Sure, it's only a short walk from here, why don't we head over now and see if the landlady's in?"  
You and Mike leave the coffee shop and you pull your collar up against the chilly wind. You've seen Holmes do the same in his photos, and wonder if he'll notice.  _Who are you kidding, of course he'll notice._  Before long you arrive at a door marked  _221B,_ and Mike rings the doorbell.

"Boys!" a voice yells, and moments later feet are flying down the staircase. The door opens, and a man, tall, dark-haired and dressed in a tight-fitting suit and blue satin dressing gown stands before you. You can feel his eyes darting over you, probably noticing things you hadn't noticed yourself.

"Mrs. Hudson," Holmes shouts. "Someone's here about the other apartment. God knows why, she should just swallow her pride and ask her parents to let her move back in." His eyes continue wandering over you before meeting yours with a piercing stare. His lips pull at the edges and he smirks, raising an eyebrow and letting out a low chuckle before turning back up the stairs.

You're only half surprised at how well he knows your situation from a glance. You disagree, however, with his assertion that living at home again would be a good idea; the constant condescension from your parents, who'd told you more than once Chris wouldn't be the guy for you, would be unbearable. What's more, you could be living mere steps down the hall from the man you've just seen, a god from his curls to his bare feet. And that was before he opened his mouth and purred with that  _voice,_  and before he chased criminals all over the city. You'd sleep in the gutter for the chance to tag along.

An older woman comes to the door looking slightly flustered, wearing a patterned dress, tied at the waist. "You want to look at the basement?" she asks, uncertain. "I haven't had anybody interested in it; bit of a mould problem, you know," she continued, stepping aside and ushering you and Mike inside. You follow Mrs. Hudson down a narrow set of stairs and arrive in a dim corridor. There's a door, padlocked, above which worn gold plates read  _221C._ An inadvertent shiver runs through you as Mrs. Hudson pulls the padlock open.

"I had a place when I was first married, awful black mould all over the walls. It's just too damp down here- but that's the curse of basements, isn't it?" She keeps a steady stream of commentary flowing as the door opens and the three of you step inside.

"It'll need a bit of fixing up," she adds, not that it has to be said.

The room smells musty, and it's hardly any wonder as you observe the way the rot has corrupted everything. It's a large, square space with a barren fireplace and an unframed mirror leaning up against one of the corners. Two of the walls are painted a blue-green colour, and the other two are dirty and stripped of any paper or paint whatsoever. There are a few windows, draped with thin white curtains, but the light dissipates, consumed by the stale gloom. You can't quite figure out what colour the carpet is supposed to be, and can't imagine walking on it barefoot, not that you could afford to replace it.

"I can do you a special deal, deary," Mrs. Hudson says, absent-mindedly running a hand over the wall and cringing. "Between you and me, it's not like anybody is going to make a better offer."

"I'll take it," the words leave your mouth suddenly and you're not sure whether you regret them or not. The place is a dump – in fact, a dump would probably be more inviting. You remind yourself that the average dump, however, is not located beneath the residence of Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson.

"Good for you," Mrs. Hudson puts a hand on your shoulder, her voice sounding markedly doubtful. Mike's expression betrays surprise and a touch of disgust, which he is unable to hide with a plastered smile.

"Interesting," a voice rumbles from the doorway, and you turn to see Sherlock stepping in slowly, hands behind his back. He focuses his gaze on you. "Not just a matter of pride, it seems; noone in their right mind would decide to stay here if that were their only concern- can't even fathom where you think you're going to sleep, and clearly you've no idea yet."

You know he's right, but simply throw him a quizzical look, enjoying your present status as a mystery. "There's something else…" he trails off, examining the decaying walls and window frames as he paces the room. "Here," he mutters. "There must be some reason why you have to be  _here_. Moriarty knows about this room, but I don't imagine he'd send his people right through the front door- he's already proven he can get in."

It seems Holmes hasn't yet considered the fact that somewhere between the deep cupid's bow of his lips and the sharp shadows cut by his cheekbones, the sight of him alone has the power to convince you a cupboard is a castle, and for the moment you're relieved. You can't imagine it'll be long, though, before he picks up on your motives; you've read about the way he reads attraction in a woman's elevated pulse, and the dilation of her pupils.  
Without another word, Holmes stalks back out of the room, leaving Mike and Mrs. Hudson muttering about how  _he's always like that, don't you worry dear._

B.

You don't sleep at 221C Baker Street that night. Uncertain as to how you should go about making the place livable, you elect to sleep at the apartment you share with Christopher just once more. This also affords you the immense satisfaction of telling him over breakfast that you're moving out. It's obvious he's glad, but you can tell he wanted to be the first to leave. You tell him he can call you if he gets an offer on the house, since it's not like he can make the repayments on his own.

You catch a cab to Baker Street with a couple of boxes of your things, including a blue tarp you thought to pick up while buying dinner last night. It'll do for now as far as a floor covering goes. You're disappointed to find that Sherlock and John aren't around; Mrs. Hudson explains that they're investigating another one of their cases.

"Those boys, always running madly about town. I never know when they're going to be back," she mutters, helping you with one of the boxes. "Sherlock seemed to think he'd be gone a couple of days with this one, something about a gigantic  _hound,_ would you believe – goodness only knows what he expects to find this time…"

_A gigantic hound?_  you think to yourself. It sounds so impossible and archaic, like something out of a fabulous mystery tale. Immediately your mind is filled with images of Holmes and Watson stalking through darkened woods by torchlight, in search of the creature's haunt, and you can't quell the sharp twinge of jealousy you feel as you head downstairs to unpack your first few boxes in your mildewed new excuse for a home.  _Next time_ , you promise yourself. Next time, you will be a part of the adventure.

"You'll be needing this, too, dear," says Mrs. Hudson, presenting you with a key which looks just as old and weathered as the rest of 221C. "It's the only one, mind, so you you'd best be careful, get a copy made or something. I've been meaning to do it myself, I just never thought anyone would be-"

"It's okay," you interrupt her ramble. "I'll get duplicates made, and I'll fix you up with one, no problem."

"Well," she replies, looking pleased, "aren't you good. It's a nice change after dealing with those two troublesome boys, you know, and they can be such a handful.  _Body parts_  in the  _fridge_ , bullets in the wall and all their other nonsense." She pauses, and looks around your shabby, low-ceilinged flat for a few long moments, clearly still astounded you've decided to move into it. "Why don't you come 'round and have a cuppa," she asks kindly, resting a hand on your arm.

"Body parts in the fridge?" You try to sound as though it's the first time you've heard such a thing. It's been mentioned on the blog, but you've always been slightly curious about just how much truth is in Watson's descriptions of Holmes' wild experiments.

"Oh yes dear, all sorts of odd things. Just the other day there was a  _severed head_  in there, if you'll believe it! – absolutely ghastly, the shock of it nearly upset my hip. And then there's that blasted skull he keeps on the mantelpiece, horrid thing."

"Interesting," you try to sound as though the first thing currently on your mind isn't rifling through Sherlock Holmes' fridge and documenting everything you find there. "Anyhow, might I take you up on that offer of tea? It'd be lovely, thanks."

Mrs. Hudson's flat is pleasant, but it's too tidy for your liking. Everything is neatly put away, the surfaces are dusted, and the décor is all very quaint. There's a recipe book open on the sofa and several used scratch cards on the table nearby. She invites you to sit, so you plant yourself on one of the wooden chairs at the dining table and twiddle your thumbs.

"How you do you like your tea, deary?" Mrs. Hudson calls from around the corner in the kitchen.

"Just black, please," you answer. "No sugar."

"And do you like scones?" the singsong voice calls again.

"Definitely."

"Jam and cream?"

"Just jam, thanks."

Mrs. Hudson emerges with a tray laden with scones, a teapot and cups, and an apologetic expression on her face.

"I'm afraid I'm all out of jam at the moment. I lose track of how fast it gets eaten when Sherlock and John are here for tea – well, John, at least. I'm sure they won't mind if I borrow some of theirs though, I'll just go and see if they've got any."  
You seize the opportunity. "Might I come with you?" you suggest as casually as you can. "Just to have a bit more of a look around while you're here to show me?"

Mrs. Hudson hesitates briefly, but agrees. "Oh, well, I don't see what harm it could do. Sherlock said himself you couldn't be anybody's spy, or anything of that sort. So long as nobody interferes with his business we're all friends here."

John and Sherlock's flat is a treasure trove and it takes all the effort you have to contain your excitement. Belongings are strewn everywhere, photographs and newspaper clippings of this-murder and that-suspicious-disappearance have been pinned to a busy notice board on the wall. You can see Holmes' dressing gown draped over the lounge chair –  _the dressing gown_   _worn by Sherlock Holmes._  As you survey the room your eye is caught by a single strand of dark brown hair, and you find yourself wishing you knew about cloning. Everything is so messy and ordinary, and yet so completely surreal. A surge of renewed excitement reminds you why you're moving into the grisly basement of 221 Baker Street. Casting your eyes over the setup of test tubes and beakers on the kitchen table, you know  _this_ is why. Sherlock Holmes is why.

C. 

You pass most of the time until Sherlock and John return in the company of a novel, spending more than a few hours seated at the same table you'd been at the day you ran into Stamford. As you read, any character described as  _handsome_  or  _clever_  becomes Holmes in your mind's eye. This time you spend your day in the café not because of the people who'd be around at home, but because home loses its appeal without the people who currently  _aren't_  around.  
You've set up your mattress to sleep on, tarpaulin carefully separating it from the mysterious grey-brown of the floor. Beyond a few books, a lamp and some clothes you haven't unpacked much; you figure you're not going to bring any friends back here to show the place off, and if you were worried about making it homey your alterations would have to reach far deeper than setting up a sofa or desk.

It is a chuffed Watson and a fidgety Holmes who return from their case one afternoon.

"Yes, but what is there to do  _now_ , John? I've not had a case to solve since last night." Irritation marks Holmes' deep voice as it carries down the hallway.

"Well, just try a little patience and we'll get something soon, Sherlock. If no clients call I'm sure Lestrade will have something for you, or Mycroft," John tries to soothe is roommate, but a telltale sigh tells you the doctor is well aware his words are water off a duck's back.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock mutters disdainfully, "I'd rather not."

You choose this moment to make your way up the stairs, before the detectives have shut themselves in their flat. You feel almost like you should tread quietly, as though you're intruding, but opt for deliberate, confident steps; you live here too, after all.  
When you reach the top those clear eyes are again focused on you.

"Ah, our  _neighbour_  is back, John." Sherlock points out, and you can't quite decipher the meaning in his tone.

"Well," you say, wanting to appear self-assured, "you're the ones who are back, really. From one of your cases- or so I hear."

"Been talking to Mrs. Hudson, have you?" Sherlock takes a step closer. "Ah, yes, I see she's fed you some of her scones," he continues, voicing his deductions in a swift murmur addressed to noone in particular. You realise with a start that you've been wearing the same shirt for at least three days, and make a mental note to change it as soon as this conversation ends.

"But that's not all you know, is it?" The tall man says, not really asking. You try to keep yourself composed as his voice drops into that intoxicating lower octave, but he's picking you apart and you can feel your defences crumbling. "You want to join in; it's all over your face. I guessed as much before, but it's dangerous jumping to conclusions. You've read the blog, haven't you?"  
Your silence betrays you.

"A  _fan_ , of course. That's why you're living here." He turns to Watson with a dark chuckle. "John, we've got ourselves a fan living in the basement."  
John looks slightly uncomfortable. His eyes flick between you and Sherlock – Sherlock he looks at with the hint of an apology. You, he examines with an unwelcoming expression, and you wonder whether perhaps you've been staring admiringly at Holmes a little more openly than you'd thought. You feel your cheeks growing warm.

"Tell me, then,  _fan_ : what is it you wish to achieve in moving to this particular basement in Baker Street?" Sherlock's tone changes to a friendlier, more playful one, and he takes another sweeping stride forwards until his tall figure is looming over you, and your vision is crowded by his coat, with its red buttonhole, and his navy scarf. You pull your eyes up to his face and hope to Merlin he can't hear that your heart is doing a highly unusual dance in your chest. You're paralysed by his proximity, but it's your chance to get your foot in the door, so you try to drag your attention away from his breath on your forehead and find the words to say.

"I- I want-"  _Come on. Just one sentence, it's simple enough._ "I want to do what you do," you blurt out, relieved that the statement is finally free. Holmes says nothing, so you attempt to fill the silence. "Cases, mysteries, you know-"

"Yes, yes, I know perfectly well what I do," he cuts you off. "What do you think, John?" He turns to his companion, raising an eyebrow. "Shall we see what skills in deduction our little fan possesses?" He turns back to you, taking a long step back and spreading his arms wide. "Tell me what you see."

You're a rabbit caught in the headlights. It's a long moment before you can even begin to process Holmes' instruction, and another before you come across a single thing to say.

"I see…"  _I see a ridiculously handsome, impossibly intelligent man. Damn it, think of something._ "I see someone who is constantly searching for distractions, and someone who cares little for what others think of him so long as they know he is infinitely cleverer than they are."

"Elementary," Holmes sneers. "Go on."

"I – I see a man who's missing pieces the rest of us have – the simple pieces, the basic ones; the ones which hold us up in the end. I see a man who's floating in midair because he can reach so much higher than anyone else, but can't stand to have his feet on the ground."

"Poetic," the sneer remains. "And if, by that, you mean to say I have no interest in the dull, the commonplace or the mundane, then you would be correct – though all it takes to know that is one glance at John blog. If you're going to make any  _real_  deductions then I suggest you make them now."

All you can think of is the fact that this slim, elegant man either has no clue about captivating effect he has on people, or he deliberately hides his understanding in order to avoid wasting time dealing with the affections directed towards him. You can't imagine it's possible for a person to live without feeling any attachment to anyone. You recognised Mycroft's name earlier- Sherlock's brother, from what you've read, whose sense of rivalry runs almost as deep as his younger sibling's, but not quite, saving a little space for brotherly concern; then of course there's John, who's still looking coldly at you as though he'd like Sherlock to be eyeing  _him_ up and down instead…

"People care about you, Sherlock."

It takes the odd expression on Holmes' face for you to realise you've said it out loud.  _Oh god, why._  It's not really even a deduction, and it's certainly not what the detective wants to hear, whether or not you think he may need to hear it.

"Do  _you_?" A predatory grin spreads across his features. "Do  _you_  think you care about me? That's what you really want to say, isn't it?"  
In your head, you're already planning your please-take-me-back speech to your parents. Sherlock Holmes has caught you, as, deep down, you always knew he would, and now words have utterly deserted you.

"Come downstairs," he says, his face hovering close to yours for a moment, eyes unreadable. "There's something I'd like to discuss in private. John, go on ahead and put the kettle on, if you'll be so kind."

A disgruntled John glares at you for a second, before trudging through the door of the flat he shares with Holmes. Sherlock's face has transformed from intensely critical to something kinder in a matter of seconds, and he beckons you down the stairs which lead to your mouldy basement home. He extends a large hand, and as you offer yours he wrap his long fingers gently around your wrist. You shiver.

"Would you like to help me with an investigation?" Holmes whispers, though you can't imagine anyone else is listening in. His whisper is smooth and deep, and you'd swear it was magnetic, an invisible force pulling you after him. All you can do is nod, and try in vain to keep an idiotic grin from hijacking your mouth.

"I've just discovered that a murder was in fact committed here, at Baker Street, in the very flat you've just rented," Sherlock breathes into your ear, and your heart races even faster than before. You abandon your efforts to retain any sort of composure around him; it's pointless since you can't conceal a thing from him however hard you try.  _Finally,_  the adventure you've been craving all this time – and finally a man who craves it as desperately as you do.

"When?" You whisper back, not wanting to break the tension of the near-silence between you.

"Pass me the key," Holmes doesn't answer you, instead gesturing to the locked door of 221C. You fumble for the key in your pocket, pulling it out and giving it to him gladly.

As you enter the room, Holmes whirls into action, his coat swishing behind him. He pulls one of your cheap wooden chairs from the side of the room and places it in the centre, taking a seat and looking intently at the walls and ceiling from this vantage point. Noting your curiosity, he stands and gestures for you to sit and make your own observations. You are happy to oblige, and focus all your attention on the wall before you, trying to figure out what Holmes may have discerned about it. Were there bloodstains, or signs of a struggle left over from this murder he spoke of? Not immediately finding any such marks, you begin to worry that you're missing the bleeding obvious, and humiliating yourself again.

You can feel the figure of Sherlock Holmes standing behind you, brushing up against your back. Before you know what's happening, his hand cups your cheek. You flush at his cool touch, pulse racing beneath your skin. His thumb dances lightly over your lips, stroking them shut. In a flash, his other hand wraps thick duct tape over your mouth, layering it twice around your head. You begin to struggle, but it's useless. His agile hands snatch up both your wrists and jerk them tightly behind your back, fastening you to the chair. You try to scream, but all you can manage is a choked, muted whine, as the dark-haired man finishes tying your legs. Then he leans up close to you and purrs, a sound which is suddenly far more menacing than beautiful.

"You want to do what I do? Well, then you must do the extraordinary. Knock on my door any time in the future and I will be fascinated to work with you. In the meantime, don't trouble yourself with trying to call for Mrs. Hudson; even if she does hear you, I'm sure you've been informed that  _this_ ," he brandishes the tarnished golden object tauntingly, "is the only key.  _Not_  that it's likely she'll have any reason to believe you're in here; I'll see to a convincing cover story."

He strides out through the doorway, then leans back around to impart a few last words. You can feel your eyes burning with tears, as sobs catch in the back of your throat and your breaths turn to an ugly wheezing.

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull," he says with a wink, and slams the door behind him.

 

 


End file.
